


Wait For The Kick

by ruric



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: fic_promptly, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-09
Updated: 2010-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:55:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric





	Wait For The Kick

Arthur's hands are shaking and he curls his fingers inwards, until he can feel his nails cutting into his palms, the muscles of his arms tensing trying to force the trembling to stillness.

He's conscious that he's breathing too shallowly, on the borderline of hyperventilating, and he can feel the blood pounding in his temples. The staccato thump of his heart sounds loud inside his own skull, his body riding an adrenalin high that shows no signs of abating in the immediate future.

The calculating side of his brain is occupied with recognizing panic, cataloging the feelings and considering more effective and efficient strategies for how to deal with this the _next_ time it happens. 

He knows already without a shadow of a doubt that there will be a next time, probably many, many more next times if the program continues. The results they've been getting have been so good the Joint Committee would have to be mad to cancel it, the cost/benefit analysis alone is an economists wet dream.

The less rational side of his brain however is still having a screaming fit trying to establish control over a "flight" instinct ramped up to 1000% and is struggling to fight off the after effects of the PASIV, which, despite the panic, makes the world appear just a little fuzzy on the periphery of his vision. 

And if there's one thing Arthur really doesn't like it's fuzzy.

When the door slams behind him Arthur nearly fucking levitates out of his skin, spinning around fast enough to make him dizzy. The words are tumbling out before he can lock them behind his teeth, a string of curses in French that any gutter whore from the docks of Marseille would be proud to claim.

"Darling, I didn't know you cared!"

For a split second Arthur seriously considers punching Eames in the face, if nothing else it would let him work off some of the adrenalin. But Eames' lips aren't anywhere close to forming his usual grin and there's a tightness around his eyes that's totally unfamiliar.

"Fuck. You."

"Maybe later - if you ask me nicely."

Eames tries for a smirk that might've fooled Arthur if he hadn't spent the last three months working with him, and then carefully steps around Arthur leaving a good three feet of space between them.

Arthur closes his eyes, sucks in a deep breath and holds it until his heart rate drops from flat out panic down to something he'd expect to hit after a hard work out.

He's conscious of the chink of metal on porcelain, of the soft scuff of Eames' footsteps approaching.

"Fancy a cuppa?"

He blinks, staring for a fraction too long at Eames' slightly blown pupils before dropping his gaze to Eames' hands, each one holding a large mug of tea.

Intellectually he'd always known that death could be the kick to get them out of the dream state, the same way that he'd intellectually known Eames was undeniably British.

Being confronted with the fact that the dream state death could mean being physically torn apart by a baying mob and that it would feel goddamn _real_ was as ridiculous as Eames standing in front of him, offering Arthur the universal British cure for all your ills.

It topples him all the way over into helpless laughter, even if it sounds a little too brittle to his own ears and Eames joins him, grin widening, shoulders shaking.

He reaches out and takes the mug before Eames spills the tea. 

Eames' warm fingers curl around his wrist, pressing briefly before relinquishing their grasp and Arthur files that away to deal with much later.


End file.
